#lyonelb

' ℌold your hand flat. ' she tells him gently. nancy has been driving for a solid ten hours, but that's just fine. they're making good time, she and her trailer full of spotted little horses, some plain coated with simple blankets of white, as though puffs of clouds had collapsed and dashed themselves upon the quarters of the two year olds she hauls, others with splashes of cream smearing in with the chestnuts and bays and palominos. she'd regretted the last truck stop she'd passed sixty miles back. she wasn't about to pass this one too. she holds her cigarette carefully between her teeth as she takes his hand, helps him to unfurl his fingers and boast out his palm where the cookie of rolled oats and honey lay in wait for the snuffling muzzle of one in particular to have taken interest in the treat; a scruffy red roan with a face mottled with pinks and oranges, as though a painter had flung their soaking brush and the colt had caught the spray. her fingers scrape, rough as stone, but are not unkind. ' or else they'll think they're carrots. '

@lyonelb

perfect match i think so when are they getting married

are you king aegon's type ?

a  bit  of  a  general  answer  rather  than  a  specific  moment  ,  but  i  do  love  when  i  read  a  reply  i  just  typed  up  ,  or  a  headcanon  ,  and  i  feel  like  i  can  now  clearly  see  the  direction  i'm  taking  that  muse.  when  everything  clicks  ,  from  tone  ,  to  dialogue  ,  to  how  i  shape  their  actions  and  thoughts.  when  their  voice  becomes  clear  to  me  ,  i  guess.  goes  for  canons  and  ocs!  especially  ocs  ,  because  often  there  is  so  much  time  involved  until  a  concept  truly  comes  to  live!

in  this  ,  i  don't  feel  like  i  have  a  strong  preference.  in  writing  ,  i  do  think  that  we  make  canons  our  own  to  some  extent  whilst  playing  dolls.  either  expanding  on  them  ,  or  salvaging  whatever  was  left  to  the  fandom.  but  when  it  comes  to  a  soft  spot?  definitely  for  original  characters.  there  is  so  much  work  involved  ,  and  it  does  allow  for  a  unique  glimpse  into  people's  creative  journeys  and  the  stories  they  want  to  tell.  it's  a  vulnerable  thing  to  put  them  out  there  and  to  me  that's  precious.

𝔏ord lyonel of the stormlands, now beholden to the knowing watch of a lady green to her titles in many ways, but not far from her wits. nobles could be tricky. some, if not all, even enjoyed it, the wicked sport of taking advantage of the good faith of better fools. no one besides the lickspittles and spiders among the beauteous pillars of grandeur, the secret places of the castles so grand, so imposing, could hope for a tongue so silver-war man that the laughing storm was. turstin wymond is not a waif to be quelled says the way she regards him then from over the goblet he has made her hesitate to bring to her lips. what stirs her blood so? ' 𝔖he ate men like you, that red mare upon my banner. not many live still from her time to recall her but i have their children for that. horrifying things, what she could do to a body. ' a quickening inside of her, passable as a man enflamed from where she eases herself into the unyielding seat across the table. she feels the weight of her father bearing down upon her brow-feels him pull his face over hers, stony, fixed. ' they thought she was a direwolf, at first, the way she tore it apart. '

like honeyed gold the lord's eyes were. she could see it even from where she sat in his good company. she's aware of herself, painfully, when at chance she glimpses his grin, lips curled like broad strokes of filigree. so cocksure. like a boy. ' what will you do for a woman with a dragon? '

@lyonelb

there is no privacy at the ashford tourney. people coming and going from her own pavilion. hands constantly reaching out, desperate to hear about their future. lords cornering her in her tent to hear about the glory they are sure they will achieve. she despises that she was brought here, that the king had phrased it as a request rather than a demand. to accompany his sons to the tourney and offer her sight to the people in attendance. but anyone with a brain knows that you cannot deny royalty, and especially not when the demand appears innocuous. there is not a concern of the physical demands being placed on her - the blinding headaches and pile of linen filled with blood from her nosebleeds. nor the mental ones - constant flashes of other’s memories and futures. degrading her sense of self for days afterwards.

she had thought that she had finally found a private corner - away from their prying eyes and overwhelming demands. the tears are unexpected, crawling down her face before she had made a decision to cry. but it feels cathartic as she leans forward against the tent pole. 

Munday questions / Accepting

how  long  have  you  been  roleplaying,  and  what  got  you  started?

I've  actually  been  on  this  site  for  five  years  now  (  which  is  honestly  way  longer  than  I  expected  )  and  .  .  .  you  know  that  moment  when  you  are  watching  or  reading  something  and  you  start  wondering  what  would  happen  if  one  character  met  another,  or  even  someone  from  a  completely  different  fandom  that  you  like?  Well,  I  used  to  think  about  that  all  the  time  and  rp  seemed  like  the  best  way  to  satisfy  that  curiosity.

what’s  the  hardest  part  of  roleplaying  for  you?

as small a land as she may be, serault's fortune remains with coffers ever full. still, even a place famed for such a clear craft was not without it's secrets. ❛    do you enjoy yourself in a hunt, my lord?     ❜ the lady of serault spoke as her gaze found the distance where a line of trees sat; a part of the tirashan forest known as the applewoods. ❛    strange game hides deep within the deepwoods, where the trees are taller than even the towers of the keep ... or so the old stories say.     ❜

' 𝔓erhaps, yes. ' tells the red mare to the stag. tonight, the sea is angry. the castle is a-thrum with the rain's volley, the fat drops malignant smackings upon stone and glass alike by the thousands. hateful are the black clouds just beyond their shared hearth, at odds with the swell of lurching waves, the splinter of sea spray upon the break against craggy shores. a terrible lowing, then, below the crack of thunder, or something more membranous-echoing from out the fog, and the grumble of a festering, moonless sky.

her hair still steams, wet and thrashed with dragon flight. her face still stings. without the radiance of ozgog's scales beneath her turstin can now feel the chill of her night's ride gnaw upon her fingers. it was good of him to have received her. difficult not to, considering what she rode in on. ' perhaps then i too, am dangerous. '

@lyonelb